


Overtime

by kawaiirun



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Best Friends, M/M, One Shot, Pining, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 09:10:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17485319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kawaiirun/pseuds/kawaiirun
Summary: It's late, but neither of them are going home.





	Overtime

It was a quiet enough day in the office. Nothing of interest really happened, save for more reports to file being dumped unceremoniously into their laps. The upper brass at Central HQ were eager to put them to work after their transferral. With great power comes great responsibility and all that. Well, that was fine for the Colonel, always looking to get promoted, but Havoc didn't care as much about that. No, he was just waiting to go home.

Time dripped by slowly, the clock’s hour hand dragging on and on. He tried to fly through his paperwork to ensure a prompt departure, but it was hard to throw yourself into something as mundane as writing forms. One by one, the numbers in the office dwindled until only two of them were left.

Night settles over Central soon enough, the dark sky blanketing the city, smothering it in its cold embrace. No stars speckle the sky, not like back East. None that he can see anyway. The only light is from the ever present moon, and the street lamps that line the pavement. Damn light pollution. But Central has its own charm, he decides as he stares out the window. A few cars whiz by, and a handful of people mill about on the street. It was never quiet in the big city. No time for that when there was so much to do. Havoc was no exception, only now preparing to leave work so late into the evening.

There is a chill outside, the kind that leaves children in awe at their own breath swirling in the air. He keeps his hands shoved in his pockets, making one last stop at the office after getting changed. He nudges the door open with his foot, eyes landing on the coat he had slung over his chair. But he finds his gaze drifting away as something else catches his eye. Or someone.

Breda remains firmly planted behind his desk, still dressed in his military blues. The office lamp is shining down on him like a spotlight. He doesn't look up from his work. He doesn't even acknowledge Havoc as he enters. He mutters to himself, and Havoc can only imagine what he's saying. It's too quiet to hear over the tapping of Breda’s pen on the desk. Soon enough, Breda's going to start leaving indents in the polished oak surface if he hasn't already.

Havoc clears his throat so as not to startle him, and Breda finally mumbles a greeting. Havoc should be so glad he got any kind of response when Breda was so deeply absorbed in the task at hand. He makes his way over to the desk, silently pulling his coat on. He hopes the action is enough to pull Breda out of his trance, so they can leave together, maybe grab a drink or two. He wanted to hit up the nearby bar and test his luck with the city girls. The night life was great here. However, the action is to no avail, and Havoc begins to leave. He pauses in the doorway, stuck between his friend and the clock.

“Hey… it’s way past home time, buddy.” He prompts him, but they both know that Breda is perfectly capable of telling the time.

“Mm.” Breda grunts, as noncommittal as ever.

Havoc stands over his shoulder, and a cursory glance at the papers sprawled across Breda’s desk tells him all he needs to know. Files spill out of manilla folders. Various books on the art of war he’s seen Breda read a hundred times over lay flat on their spines. The edges of their yellowing pages are beginning to fray, a testament to how much he uses them. Several maps of places Havoc’s never even heard of surround him, breaching the invisible border of their shared desk. His regular stack of paperwork is encroaching on Fuery’s territory too, teetering, threatening to fall over and crash into a radio.

He suspects the Sergeant wouldn't be too happy about that, but it doesn't much matter when he's not here.  None of them are, not even the Colonel. And if their elusive commander wasn't in, probably off gallivanting with some pretty little thing, then he didn't see why simple lackeys such as themselves should stay behind to pick up the slack. Maybe he was just jealous. Breda would certainly say so, if he wasn't so involved in his work.

He kind of gets it, though. It's easier to concentrate when it's this quiet, and Breda can hog as much space as he wants when he's alone. Only the night brings that kind of solace, the kind Havoc might be intruding on. But if Breda minds, he’d never say. Not that he’d need to. Havoc likes to think that he knows when his best friend needs to be alone, and it’s not right now.

Breda picks up a bundle of papers to inspect more closely, and the motion brings Havoc’s eyes to settle on him.  The tight grip he has on the paper, crinkling under his fingers. The frown that has made its home on Breda’s face (he’s in need of a shave, too). The way his narrow eyes scrutinise the pages before him, the glint of those green gems dulled by fatigue. The strands of red hair that Havoc has the urge to smooth back himself. He hastily banishes the thought- that would be weird.

Put simply, he looks tired.

Neither of them shift; an unstoppable force versus an immovable object. Havoc crosses his arms and Breda tries to keep reading, but the weight of Havoc’s stare is bearing down on him like the harsh light of the lamp. He finally puts the file down, leans back in his chair and sighs.

“Sorry, Hav. Gotta stay here and get this done.” He says with a lopsided grin, but there's no real joy behind it.

Truth be told, Havoc doesn't envy him. Sure, he’s had a squad of his own before, back East. You don’t get to Second Lieutenant without having leadership thrust upon you at least once. But somehow, it was different. He didn’t have Breda’s brilliant strategic mind, so he never had to _create_ the orders, he only had to give and receive them. That amount of control weighs heavily on you, after countless causality reports, numbers that are too high, things that don’t go right. Because to Breda, they’re never just numbers. He sees people behind the statistics, and it’s cause of that that Havoc respects him a hell of a lot more than the higher ups.

So he gets it, he really does, when he sees Breda pouring over his plans. He can see the way his mind races through the stress etched onto his face, condemning him; his eyes flick through the reams of script as he runs through endless possibilities, considering each carefully, calculating the best move to make. Like playing chess with living pawns. And though one man couldn't possibly account for every little thing, he thought that if anyone could, it’d be Breda.

Havoc wordlessly shrugs off his coat and drops it on the back of his chair, sitting next to Breda. Now he’s got his attention. He shoots Havoc a quizzical look, one eyebrow raised. Havoc ignores it and swipes some folders off Breda’s desk before he can protest. He's not smart enough to help with the minutiae of battle strategies, it's true, but he can do the grunt work fine. It's the least he could do to lighten the load.

“Hey-”  Breda leans over, attempting to steal them back, but Havoc simply holds them over his head. Breda growls in frustration; it's kinda cute. “What do you think you're doing?”

“What's it look like? And they call me the dumb one.” Havoc shakes his head, pulling the cap off his pen and scanning the first page.

“I didn't ask for your help.” Breda is, like so many people, a bit too proud for that.

“You didn't need to.” Havoc pulls his pack of cigs out of his pocket, holding one between his lips as he fishes for his lighter. He can see Breda preparing a retort, so he holds up a hand to quiet him. “Listen, I'm not letting you rot in here all night. So we either leave now or I help get us outta here sooner.”

He can see the cogs turning in Breda’s mind once more. Mapping out how to persuade Havoc to leave, and the irritation when he concludes that he can't. He runs a hand through his tuft of copper hair, exhaling but ultimately deciding to drop the matter.

“Fine.” He concedes, and Havoc couldn't help but pout a little. Why did he have to beg Breda to let him help? Should be the other way round, he reckons.

They settle into a comfortable silence, not speaking and not needing to. The familiar presence of smoke envelopes them in a haze. The clacking of Breda’s typewriter and the scratching of Havoc’s pen eases them into a rhythm. They work well into the night without complaint, aside from the occasional yawn. It’s… nice.

Havoc realises he hasn’t seen Breda move from the corner of his eye in quite some time, and he peers over the papers in his hands at his friend. He’s out like a light, cheek squished against the desk. A small puddle of drool is starting to accumulate, he notes with amusement. Havoc rolls his eyes; he figured this would happen. He dutifully clears Breda’s desk, tidying up bits of paperwork before they become drenched. He doubts that anyone would appreciate soggy paperwork. Up close, he can see Breda’s eyes flutter, deep in sleep. He takes his coat without a second thought and drapes it over Breda. The sleeping soldier stirs a little, and Havoc winces, hoping he hasn’t woken him.But Breda’s weariness welcomes the additional warmth, and he stills again.

It felt like the right thing to do. The office got cold at night after all. He’d have done it for any of the team.

He figures now is as good a time as any for a break of his own and he rests his elbow on the table, propping his chin up with his hand. He quickly dims the desk lamp, because he knows Breda doesn’t like sleeping in the light, reducing it to a soft glow. All the worry from before has melted away, and the faint light is bouncing off Breda in such a way that makes him look incredibly… soft? Peaceful.

He wouldn’t mind staying in this moment for a while longer. He’s in no rush to wake Breda, anyway. Instead of going home, Breda would probably delve right back into work, the bastard. He _did_ say he wouldn’t leave until Breda did though. He was a man of his word, so he resolved to catch some shut eye too and hope they both slept until morning. He snubs his cigarette and ungracefully flops on the office couch, fluffing the cushions as best he can. He sneaks one final peek at Breda, as if he would wake up at any moment and catch him in the act, before laying down and letting sleep overtake him.

 

* * *

 

Breda wakes up slowly, cautiously, lifting his head off the desk and groaning. He rubs the back of his neck, trying desperately to alleviate the pain from sleeping in such an awkward position. He notes the sunlight filtering in through the blinds, and checks the clock; damn it. How long was he out? Maybe he should have listened to Havoc and gone home.

Havoc. He sits up fully, and registers the coat on his shoulders. It’s not his. The strong smell of smoke lets him easily identify the owner, and he’s staring right at him now. Listening now, Breda is just surprised Havoc’s exceptionally loud snoring hadn’t woken him up. And yet, it’s endearing.

Havoc has by now twisted in his sleep and ended up in a precarious position- his left leg hangs off the couch, dragging his foot across the floor. He can’t wait to see Havoc’s face when he inevitably rolls right off. One arm is slung over his head, the other clutching a couch cushion to his chest, and Breda wishes pathetically that that was him.

Try as he might, he cannot suppress the blush creeping up his neck, tinting his cheeks pink. He scoffs at himself, though it does nothing to dismiss these pesky thoughts and _feelings_. The feeling of warmth that spreads throughout his core, enough to leave him lightheaded and slightly giddy. He chalks it up to the thick coat and the lingering grip of sleep, nothing else.

He pulls the coat tighter over his shoulders. He wants to savour this, because it doesn’t just smell like cigarettes, it smells like _him._ The fair haired dumbass who stayed in the office overnight for Breda’s sake, as stubborn as he was.

If anyone had to stick around, he's glad it was Jean.

**Author's Note:**

> wowie this is my first proper go at writing fanfic. i'm really into Bravoc right now and there's about 10 fics in total, three of which are french, while i am not. critiques/comments welcome, i'm really looking to improve and terrible at judging my own work!!
> 
> thanks to my Discord pals especially for encouraging me to do this and letting me pester them with questions. i blame you entirely <3 and for their suggestions/corrections!
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://vivlet-evergarden.tumblr.com/)


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